Milo stares at me. "That's it? That's your whole process?"
"Yes."
"You're hopeless." He sighs. "Good thing you're pretty."
"I'm not pretty."
"You're very pretty. In a scary, murder-y kind of way." He cocks his head, obviously considering my current ‘look’. "It works for you."
I don't dignify that with a response, turning back to my textbook as if I'm going to suddenly start absorbing information about bones. The words blur together on the page, meaningless.
Milo finally settles on the burgundy blazer after checking himself in the mirror several more times, adjusting the collar,smoothing the front, and turning to examine the fit from different angles. Then he commits the cardinal sin of sitting directly on my bed, right in the middle of it, completely destroying the hospital corners I spent ten minutes perfecting this morning.
"So." He's got that look on his face, the one that means he's about to pry. "Real talk."
"I don't do real talk."
"You're doing it anyway." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his expression shifting from playful to genuine. "What do you actually want from tonight?"
I don't know how to answer that, or maybe I just don't want to. Putting words to the things I want feels dangerous.
"And don't say 'nothing,'" Milo continues when I don't respond, "because your scent literally changes every time she walks by."
"My scent does not change."
Even as I say it, I know it's a lie. I can feel it shift sometimes, going deeper and more obvious whenever she's nearby, but I'd convinced myself it wasn't that noticeable. That I had it under control. Apparently, that’s not the case.
"You smell like a pine forest having an existential crisis, Q. It'sextremelyobvious." He pauses for emphasis. "Everyone on the team has noticed. They talk about it when you're not around."
Everyone. The whole team.
My jaw tightens. "They have not."
"Coach asked me if you were 'going through something.'"
My stomach drops. Coach.Her father. The man who could end my football career with a single phone call has noticed that something is off with me, and that something is his daughter. "He did not."
"He absolutely did. Pulled me aside after practice last week, all concerned-father-figure about it." Milo's grin sharpens, mybrother enjoying my discomfort far too much. "I told him you were just constipated."
"Milo."
"What? It was better than 'hopelessly in love with your daughter,' right?"
I have no response to that. Because he's not wrong, and we both know it. I've spent three months thinking I was being subtle and keeping my feelings locked down tight. Apparently I've been broadcasting them to everyone with a functioning nose. The silence stretches between us, and Milo waits. He can be surprisingly patient when he wants to be, when something actually matters to him, and apparently this matters.
"I want her to look at me again," I finally say, the words coming out quieter than I intended. "Like she did that one time. During the budget meeting three months ago."
"She looks at you all the time."
"Not like that." I shake my head. "That time was different. It was like she actually saw me. Not just another player, not just someone in the crowd.Me."
Milo's expression softens slightly, the teasing edge fading. "Q. That was three months ago."
"I know."
"You've been hung up on one smile for three months?"
I don't answer, but my silence says everything. Three months of replaying that moment. Three months of watching her from across practice fields and meeting rooms. Three months of feeling like an idiot for caring this much about 2.3 seconds of eye contact.
